


Curious

by dorothydonne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Glasses, M/M, Plot What Plot, Sorta Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothydonne/pseuds/dorothydonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sustains a head injury and has to get glasses. Sherlock finds them... curious. PWP. Glasses!kink with a side of chair!sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curious

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [marielikestodraw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieLikeToDraw/pseuds/MarieLikesToDraw) who, on Tumblr, said: “I need someone to write me a fic where John wears glasses and Sherlock goes ‘new kink’” and sent my brain to work.

“You sustained a substantial head injury, Doctor Watson. I don’t think it’s wise for you to be running around the whole of London fresh out of your dressing gown.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned downward, the closest he could come to frowning, and he glanced from one doctor to the other, noticing the way John’s hands were folded in his lap and he was subtly picking at his fingernails. His mouth was set in a fine line--he didn’t like being told what to do, especially by medical professionals. He’d once told Sherlock that doctors made the worst patients. Apparently it wasn’t just a myth.

“Is the... vision loss permanent?” John asked.

This was the first Sherlock was hearing of any visual impairment, but he supposed it made sense. He’d noticed John squinting but had immediately linked it to light sensitivity that tends to come after head trauma.

“There’s no way to be sure,” Dr. Pierce said, flipping through a stack of papers with no real purpose other than to make himself look more official. “The brain is, in many ways, still a mystery. It could be permanent, it could end tomorrow. Corrective lenses are the best option, of course. Even if they’re only temporary, they’d most likely bring you back to twenty-twenty.”

That was when Sherlock realized that, like himself, John _hated_ not knowing.

\----

Sherlock returned to Baker Street after solving a double homicide _all by himself_ because a certain John Watson was still on _mandatory crime leave_ , as per both his doctor and Lestrade. Greg--the smarmy bastard--had had the nerve to remind Sherlock that “only an idiot ignores his doctor.”

He pulled off his scarf and tossed it in the general direction of “this is where it belongs,” following it quickly with his coat. John was making his late night cup of tea in the kitchen, but he was surely about to realize they were out of milk.

 _No,_ Sherlock thought, _because even though you used the last of it this morning, he’s been here all bloody day and has had time to fetch more._

“Evening,” John called from the kitchen. Sherlock heard a cupboard open and then the following sigh, indicating that John had just found the jarred scorpion next to the sugar bowl. No matter.

“Anderson misses you.” Sherlock sat down at his flatmate’s laptop and closed out the open screens (medical journals, two Amazon listings for pointless pleasantries, and an article about laser eye surgery) before starting fresh with his own inbox. “He says your sympathy makes me more bearable.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to come back if it’s for _Anderson_.”

The right corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked as John entered the sitting room, but he didn’t look up. Seeing he’s occupied John’s laptop, there’s another sigh, but this one wasn’t quite as exasperated as the one in relation to the scorpion. John set himself in the armchair by the television and was digging around in the cushion sides for the remote when Sherlock glanced over to inform him about the day’s case--which he’d solved _alone_ , if anyone wasn’t aware--when...

Different. _Curious_.

“John, look at me.”

John turned his head. His hair was faintly damp from an uncharacteristic nighttime shower, his forehead was crinkled with confusion, and he was wearing a thick-striped t-shirt with a pair of plaid flannel pyjama bottoms. But it wasn’t the clashing patterns that had thrown Sherlock.

It was the dark silver-rimmed glasses currently residing on his face. Thicker along the brow, thinner just above his cheekbones and... Well, _strange_. More data. He needed more data.

“You’re wearing glasses,” Sherlock said. He stood and approached John slowly, as if the man was someone else entirely. Intrigued.

“Well... yes. Excellent deduction, but you couldn’t have expected me to walk around squinting at things until my head goes right. I looked perpetually sour.” John was very nearly squinting at Sherlock now, his expression quizzical.

Sherlock stood a few feet from John and stared at the other man for an almost uncomfortable amount of time, his gaze studious. He watched as John stood and put his mug on the side table before turning back to him with a nervous tension visibly seeping through him.

“Are they that terrible?” John asked, reaching toward his face.

“No--don’t.” Sherlock crossed the space between them and stopped John’s hands before he could take the glasses off. “They’re just... curious.” John’s pulse spiked beneath Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking at the shorter man from another angle. “They suit you,” he said, his voice just a notch lower than before. “But it’s... unusual.”

“What is?” John still looked faintly startled, but Sherlock couldn’t help noticing (it was his job, after all) that the other man’s eyes were trained on his lips. Standing in such close proximity was surely part of the reason--and it wasn’t as if they hadn’t indulged in such activities before, so it was entirely likely John had deduced where this particular situation was about to lead.

“Irrelevant.” His mouth was against John’s before the word was entirely out, the “ _vant_ ” getting caught somewhere between his tongue and John’s parting lips.

John made a strangled sort of sound in the back of his throat--one that was entirely _not_ protest--and nearly sagged against Sherlock, clutching his arms tight enough that Sherlock would surely have a few finger-shaped bruises. It had been a while; John’s enthusiasm and near bonelessness was encouraging.

Sherlock’s hands gripped the sides of John’s face, holding him at the angle he’d discovered to be prime for kissing with their height difference. His thumb traced the unfamiliar edge of the glasses to the corner where the frames met the arm, and then his right hand was slipping through John’s hair, following the silver curve behind his ear and tipping John’s head so their tongues could slide together _just right_.

He tasted Earl Grey, dark, no milk or sugar. Faint traces of cinnamon toothpaste. Something underlying that he’d only ever been able categorize as _John_. There was a cool sensation as the glasses pressed against his left cheekbone, caught up in the rush of the kiss, but his own heat transferred to the frames and it quickly faded from a cold slip to a neutral pressure leaving a faint imprint in his skin.

The fingers on his left hand trailed along John’s throat, coming to rest around the side only long enough to graze the nail of his thumb across his Adam’s apple before sliding around to cup the back of his neck, tilting John’s head back further. His mouth left John’s and without looking up, he knew that the glasses were a bit skewed, so he brought one hand forward and steadied them as his lips applied gentle pressure along John’s jawline.

“You’re... the glasses... they...”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and nipped at John’s throat and John stopped trying to speak, as if the soft suction was effectively pulling out the words before he could utter them. Sherlock got the idea. John was entertained, yet slightly alarmed at the reaction the glasses were causing. Frankly, he was feeling the same, himself, but he didn't need to bloody _talk about it_.

The intention at the beginning of this tryst--well, technically this was still the beginning, but Sherlock had always been a forward thinker, so he knew where it was going before he’d even stood up from the table--had been to take John to the bedroom and strip him of his clothes as quickly as possible, leaving nothing but his glasses.

So that he could _see_ , of course.

But one of John’s hands was inside Sherlock’s suit jacket, pressing him closer with hard pressure from the palm on the small of his back, and John was moving backwards toward the very chair he’d just stood from, and before Sherlock could protest (not that he would have, not really), he was straddling John’s lap, pinning him into the threadbare armchair.

The chair was just wide enough that they could fit comfortably, knees lined with hips, calves lined with thighs. And the new angle was suitable to continue his assault of his lover’s neck, especially since John was now leaning his head back into the open space behind the chair, opening up that vast throat and neck--all that skin--for Sherlock to do as he pleased.

As he teased at the spot just below John’s left ear with his tongue, Sherlock peered out from the corner of his eye, wanting to _see_.

John’s eyes were closed behind the glass, his nostrils were flared as he breathed, and the only thing that would have made the sight more arousing to Sherlock would have been for John’s glasses to actually be fogging up before his eyes.

Encounters such as this were few and far between, generally much more encouraged by John, which was probably why he was so set on this happening _right here, right now_ , without offering Sherlock a moment to rethink his actions. Not that he wanted to, of course. He didn't blame John for wanting to ensure that there was no time for second thoughts--it'd happened before. But Sherlock had started this, hadn't he?

Or had John? The glasses? Possibly. Sherlock put the idea in the back of his head to return to it when he had all his faculties about him again.

John’s fingers had tugged Sherlock’s shirttails from his pants and he was unbuttoning the purple dress shirt, bottom to top, without so much as opening his eyes. Sherlock briefly wondered how John could be quite so competent with his fingers without having to fumble or accidentally rent the buttons from the fabric. Most people in such a state were much more erratic, but John was always calculated, if not controlled, and that never failed to surprise Sherlock, who was quite equally reserved.

Well, until John’s hands finished with their deeds and began to slip along his chest, up to his shoulders in an attempt to disrobe him of his jacket and shirt at the same time. That was the point at which Sherlock decided the playing ground wasn’t quite even anymore.

His mouth found John’s again at the same moment that the top half of his clothing floated down to the floor with an impatient shove. Left hand holding John’s face steady, left thumb tracing the line of metal from temple to ear, right hand tugging striped t-shirt up, up, up. Their kiss broke for the briefest moment so that John’s shirt could be tossed across the room, landing in the general vicinity of “this is where it belongs” with Sherlock’s coat and scarf.

The floor: A great place for clothes. Sherlock had learned that _months_ ago.

It just happened to be under utilized.

John took advantage of the brief separation and the fact that Sherlock had leaned back slightly to toss the shirt across the room. His teeth found the sensitive bit of skin just between Sherlock’s collarbone and neck and passed over it slowly. Sherlock knew what John wanted. He let his head tip back and fall to one side in invitation, opening himself.

The smile against his skin was brief before John’s mouth began working against his skin, slowly, torturously, occasionally nipping at the more sensitive areas, eliciting a sound that rumbled through Sherlock so deeply, he wasn’t even sure it had come from him in the end.

“Brilliant,” John breathed against Sherlock’s jaw. “You’re brilliant like this.”

Sherlock huffed, the fingers of his right hand tangling in John’s sandy hair. “I’m always....” John shifted slightly, deliberately below him, aligning their hips in a way that had been previously unexplored and his brain momentarily halted, crashing like a faulty hard drive. “Brilliant.”

He pressed himself down against John, looking for the perfect-- _ah_ , there. There it was. He knew it from the way John’s mouth opened in a silent “ _oh_ ” against his cheek, the way John’s head nearly turned sharply enough to stab the corner of his glasses into Sherlock’s temple, and the way the other man’s back arched slightly out of the chair and his hands gripped Sherlock’s back, trying to push them closer together.

He was Sherlock Holmes. Physical relations may not have been his area, but he always _knew_.

His left hand cupped John’s jaw and lifted his face to kiss him as the right moved down between them, unbuttoning the flap on the flannel pyjama bottoms and snaking his hand inside with near-expert efficiency. The pliant mouth below his own yielded to him even further, opening enough for Sherlock to swallow the pleased sounds that escaped.

John, of course, needed the use of both his hands to undo Sherlock’s belt and unzip his trousers. Sherlock was thoroughly interested in finding out if John could do it single-handedly, but that wasn’t something that could be tested right now, not with Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around him, stroking him at a languidly slow pace.

Sherlock gasped against John’s lips as the other man took him in hand, pushing away the zip of his trousers and urging him closer until they were very nearly stroking each other at the same time. His eyes fluttered shut and he could no longer focus on kissing John, which was a testament to the doctor’s ability as a lover. Very few living beings could take away Sherlock Holmes’s ability to _focus_.

He pressed their foreheads together, very nearly cracking their skulls together with the force of it when John threaded their fingers together around the both of them, stroking them together in a way that gave a glorious new definition to friction. They’d probably regret the lack of lubrication later on, but right now it was sweet and there were so many sensations at the same time--ten fingers, two palms, the pull of flesh against flesh, John’s breath against his mouth, the sound of their hands, John’s moans and the shooting pleasure each one sent down his spine. Sherlock had never wished to not take everything in, but this was simply overwhelming.

His hips moved in time with their cumulative pumping, alternating with John below him, and he knew it wasn’t going to last much longer, not with the way his stomach was tensing, and especially not if John kept making _that sound_. The heat of their hands was enticing him to let go of everything and just fall into the feelings that were being offered to him. He'd have to give in, but he couldn't--not if John wasn't going with him.

“John...” Sherlock gasped, intending to tell him the very thing he’d just realized and promptly being silenced with a quick kiss.

“I know,” John said, and then his chest rose in a deep gasp as one of them--who had that been?--squeezed just a bit tighter.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down over the skewed silver frames and John’s pleasure-heavy lids and couldn’t help imagining the way it would look for John to be on his knees, blue eyes looking up at him through clear glass while his lips stretched and-- _oh_.

His head fell backwards as he climaxed with a guttural grown, spilling into their joined hands and slackening his grip slightly as his body gave over to the pleasure. John’s teeth sank into his shoulder, not enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to add considerably to the sensation.

Barely finished riding out his own wave, Sherlock kissed John, seeking, and increased their speed, pulling him closer and closer to the edge with each passing moment. Finally, John broke away from his mouth and buried his face in his neck, cool glass marred by Sherlock’s heated skin, muffling Sherlock’s name on his lips as he came between them.

They spent several minutes like that, coming down and breathing in unison, hands still clasped between them, albeit stickily. John’s breath on his neck was calming, almost bordering on a level of intimacy Sherlock had never allowed himself to have with anyone. Then again, John Watson seemed to be an exception in almost every other case, so why not this one?

“Anything else I should know about?” John asked. His voice was low and almost categorically lazy, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes when he looked up at Sherlock a moment later.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, curious.

“Don’t play coy with me. The second you saw these glasses, all bets for a quiet night of reading and telly were off. Do you have any other unusual turn-ons I should know about?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Says the man who nearly threw a tantrum because I purchased a new scarf.”

“I’m just saying,” John said, licking his lips, "that if there’s anything I can do to instigate another instance like this, I’d like to know so I can properly prepare.”

His glasses were still a little crooked. Normally, when someone’s frames were so askew, Sherlock would’ve had a quip prepared about their face being sideways, but he knew why John’s glasses were skewed.

He straightened them with his clean hand before tilting John’s head back, just slightly. “If I do,” he said, lips lingering only inches from John’s. “I gather it will be similar to this instance.”

“Meaning?” John whispered, eyes half-lidded as he looked at Sherlock’s lips.

“Meaning you’ll find out at the same time as me.”

Sherlock could only classify the sound that passed from John’s mouth to his as a giggle.


End file.
